


Spoils

by Pouxin



Category: The Eagle of the Ninth - Rosemary Sutcliff, The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-24
Updated: 2012-07-24
Packaged: 2017-11-27 22:08:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/667022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pouxin/pseuds/Pouxin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Esca is Uncle Aquila's body slave.  Marcus doesn't like it one bit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spoils

**Rating** : NC-17, for language and explicit sexuality  
 **Warnings** : Esca is a slave, so pretty dubcon-y all round - I felt a bit uncomfortable writing it to be honest as it's pretty messed up, but it sort of wrote itself.  
 **Notes** : Written for the third round of the second Fanmedia Challenge. Inspired (pretty loosely, I admit!) by the picture of the stone wall. Also based on [this prompt here](http://the-eagle-kink.livejournal.com/5005.html?thread=4327053#t4327053) from the_eagle_kink.

I am working on incorporating it into a slightly longer piece at some point, although it was written as a stand-alone story...

 

*******************************

 

**Spoils**

 

That first time in the arena. When their eyes met. Since then it has been like a sword pressed to the curve of _his_ throat, nicking him with every laboured heartbeat, as he waits, waits, waits. For something. Eyes raised to the heavens, calling to the gods to end it, to end him, to take away this vice of desire that leaves his chest as ruined as his thigh, scarred with wanting.

Of course, he didn't expect to see Esca again, after that first time. The shock was like plunging his head into ice water when he entered the atrium to see Esca standing against the wall, head bowed and eyes downcast, looking for all the world like an obedient house slave. Which it turned out he was. His Uncle had bought him. But not for Marcus. To be his. His body slave. His Uncle spoke lightly, as if it was no great matter, told him how Stephanos was getting old and stiff and his Uncle now had need of someone younger, stronger to assist him. That is what he said: assist him. But in that moment Marcus knew what he truly meant. He had been so blinded by Esca that first time, so numb to anything outside that circle of light that seemed to surround them, and them alone, that he had not noticed the way his Uncle's gaze, too, had lingered on the proud tilt to Esca's chin, the defiance in those steel coloured eyes. Had not noticed how quickly his Uncle had got to his feet beside him, had joined in his chant of 'Life'. He realises now. He realises that it was not just he who saw Esca in that moment, truly saw, and wanted. His Uncle did too. But his Uncle no longer needs to want. His Uncle _has_.

At first Marcus allows himself to believe that his Uncle merely requires Esca for the usual things, for dressing, for fetching and carrying, for the bath house, for clearing his plate away after dinner. But then the warmer summer months start, and the villa grows quiet in the humid nights, without the noise of rain and wind to muffle the sounds of the sleepers inside her, with only the curtains pulled haphazardly across the doorways to better allow the air to circulate. So as he lies awake in his bed, trying to calm the frantic cramping of the muscles in his wasted thigh, groping blindly in the dark for sleep, Marcus hears them. Sometimes it's almost nothing; a creak, a footfall, a gasp. Sometimes the noise seems to travel more clearly, and he can hear everything. The low rumble of his Uncle's voice giving instructions. Wet, spit-filled sounds. The rhythmic slap of flesh against flesh. His Uncle's soft, bitten off exhalations. Feeling as powerless as he did in that moment he saw the chariot racing towards him as he lay prone on the ground, Marcus turns and burrows his face down into his pillow, cheeks burning, guts churning, but always, always - _shame_ \- prick hard against his belly, twitching with want.

One night, in August, Marcus rises from his bed. He does not light a candle. Instead he slides out of his room, and pads down the corridor, languidly as if in a dream. He is in a dream. He must be sleep walking. He barely knows what he is doing, does not allow himself to think on it, not even when he pauses outside his Uncle's room and looks round the sides of the curtain. He knows what he will see there before he sees it, he can hear the juicy sound of sucking, the shuddering noise of wetness on skin.

His Uncle is sitting on his lectus, leaning back, palms flat to the coverlet, bearing his weight. His great, white head is thrown back, eyes narrowed to slits, his sleeping tunic rucked up around his waist. Esca kneels on the flagstones between his thighs, looking impossibly delicate and narrow against his Uncle's bulk. Esca is wearing only his braccae, the milk white of the flesh of his back smooth and muscular, marred only by a faint tracery of scar tissue, marks from the slaver's whip. He looks beautiful as always, both young and ancient, primitive, almost mystical. Marcus finds himself mesmerised by the whorls of ink down Esca's right arm, flexing as his fist works at what he cannot fit into his mouth. He had forgotten how strange and how thrilling they are, those tattoos, having not seen them since that first time. He does not look at what Esca is doing with his mouth. Just at Esca's beauty. His Uncle's hands are clenched around the dark flax of Esca's hair, and he uses them to pull Esca's head up and off him.

"Prepare yourself," he murmurs softly, dragging his knuckles almost fondly down the side of Esca's face.

Esca walks over to the wash basin by the doorway, and Marcus pulls back, alarmed: _he cannot be seen_. But Esca's face is focused, his eyes low. He does not look up. Instead he reaches for a small vial of oil and starts to undo the laces of his braccae. His face is cold, immobile, almost entirely still, and something about it, that stillness, hurts in Marcus' chest. Esca pushes his braccae down and steps out of them, clinical, as if he has does this a thousand times before, economical in his movements. Then he is suddenly, gloriously naked. Everything pale and hard, except for his cock, which lies small and soft, nestled against the lighter curls of his pubic hair. He dips his fingers in the oil, then reaches behind himself. His face remains unnervingly still, although the night is so quiet Marcus can hear the slick sound of Esca working himself open over the distant thrum of insects in the orchard, the guttering of the candle flame, and his Uncle's steady breathing.

"Quickly," Uncle Aquila says, although not unkindly.

Esca turns at this and pads back over to the lectus, with his easy hunter's grace. He kneels once more, returning his attention to his Uncle's flagging cock, still shiny and spit wet from Esca's earlier ministrations. Marcus himself has not softened at all, still harder than steel under his sleeping tunic, as he has been from before he even left his own bed. He gets hard just from watching Esca move, just from watching him help Sasstica gather apples or bend to retrieve a fallen water pail; let alone from seeing Esca pale and stunning, naked; let alone from watching Esca touching himself, entering himself with his elegant tapered fingers.

"Enough," his Uncle murmurs, and Esca pulls off obediently with an obscene sucking sound. Saying nothing, he rises to his feet and quickly arranges himself on all fours on the lectus. His head is down, bowed, angled towards Marcus. He is so, so beautiful. Marcus' throat feels tight with an envy that is almost a sadness. His Uncle kneels behind Esca, gripping his hip with one hand, his other on the base of his cock. Eyes closed, he pushes in to Esca with a deep, drawn out sigh. At that Esca catches his narrow lower lip between his teeth, a tiny crack in his armour. _I would not hurt you_ , Marcus longs to say, _I would never hurt you_. He thinks how he has never seen Esca smile. Esca winces several times as Uncle Aquila starts to ease in and out, but he makes no sound, and his eyes stay blank. His own cock hangs flaccid between his thighs, and Marcus feels ashamed again of how hard he is, how hard he remains, even watching Esca being taken like this, even knowing he gets no pleasure from it. Marcus knows he should leave, but he can't, hypnotised by Esca, so lithe and angular, arms flexing, soft cock bouncing with every thrust his uncle makes inside him. He does not know how long he stands there, but it feels like forever. Eventually his Uncle makes a quiet gasping sound, clutching Esca's hips hard, pumping into him. Esca is still, silent, cold. His Uncle pulls out almost immediately and collapses back onto the coverlet, breathing laboured.

"Good, good," he murmurs, almost to himself. He lifts a hand to stroke down the back of one of Esca's lean thighs. Esca stays where he is, on his hands and knees, motionless.

Presently Uncle Aquila's breathing starts to return to normal. "Clean up," he says, indicating his own rapidly shrivelling cock, shiny with oil and his own spend. Esca squeezes his eyes tight then, hanging his head low, the fluted wings of his shoulder blades rising like pale drifts of snow. Marcus can't watch his face fully at such an angle, but for a moment he sees it transfigured into a grimace of pure emotion - pain, despair, disgust, sorrow. The look churns in Marcus' guts, although his cock stubbornly remains like iron in his bracchae. In a second the look is passed, Esca's features a mask once more as he raises himself nimbly from the lectus and fetches a damp cloth from by the wash basin. As he turns and bends to attend to Uncle Aquila, Marcus catches a glimpse of the tender, vulnerable pink of his hole, still stretched slightly open, shiny and sore looking. _Too much, too much_. Marcus leaves then, goes back to the empty silence of his room, and lies stiff and awake 'til the first light of dawn slithers through the shutters.

 

Marcus broaches it with his Uncle later in the week, over breakfast.

"I would have Esca attend to me," he says simply, working to keep his voice even, concentrating on breaking apart a warm bread roll.

His Uncle looks surprised. "If you want a body slave of your own Marcus, I can spare the coin. Go down to the market. Stephanos knows the trader, he can go with you, help you get a good price."

"I don't... I would feel foolish to ask you to spend your money on another slave when we already have plenty. I would not require his assistance all the time." Marcus keeps his attention focused on the soft doughy centre of his roll, not daring to meet his Uncle's eyes.

His Uncle chuckles. "What a good nephew you are, always concerned about being a burden to me. It is perfectly natural for you to want your own slave, especially now you're up and about more. I assure you, I can afford it. Take Stephanos and go this afternoon, if you want. That would be a much better arrangement. Poor Esca has his hands quite full enough taking care of me, I can tell you."

Marcus swallows the thick clot of bread in his mouth heavily, tasting nothing, trying not to think about the hidden meaning behind his Uncle's last words. He wants to shout, to bang his fist on the table, but he does nothing. He does not want a body slave, he wants _Esca_.

 

So he goes to Esca directly, the following day, out in the orchard while Esca is collecting the fallen, rotting apples from the soft grass for Sasticca to turn into chutney.

"Esca," he calls, and watches while Esca places the wicker basket on the ground, and saunters over to him, almost cocky.

"Domine?"

Marcus forces himself to meet the cool grey drizzle of Esca's eyes. He clears his throat.

"I had asked my Uncle if you might...attend to me sometimes. He, ah... Well, I know he keeps you busy, but I thought we might... That is, we could..." He reaches out then, placing the warmth of his palm against Esca's collarbone, using his thumb to swipe against the underside of Esca's jaw, using touch to convey what words cannot. Esca's eyes harden to storm clouds in an instant.

"We could what?" he asks quietly, tone tight with anger.

"Esca," Marcus takes a step towards him, but Esca almost jumps backwards, twisting out from under Marcus' hand.

"We could _what_?"

"Well, I thought we might find some enjoyment from one another."

" _Enjoyment_? You think I enjoy Roman cock?" Esca asks savagely.

Marcus struggles not to show his surprise at hearing Esca speak so violently, so unguardedly. He shrugs, tries a smile. "It would be different, with me. I'm... we're the same age, I am not... it would be different. I am younger than my Uncle, I know I'm not... others have said I'm handsome."

Esca regards him levelly for a long moment.

"I've seen you looking on me," Marcus adds, hating himself for sounding so clumsy, although it is true, he has seen Esca's eyes on him, lingering on him sometimes for longer than is proper.

At this Esca gives a sharp, jagged smile; very different from the one Marcus has imagined seeing light up his face. "You think one Roman cock is any different from another?" he asks.

"I would make it good for you," Marcus says quietly. When Esca says nothing he adds, "Tell me differently then, Esca. Tell me you do not look at me. Tell me you do not think me fine."

Esca takes a step towards him again, his eyes narrow and cold. "No, _you_ tell me _domine_. You tell me this, when they drove that chariot into your leg, did it make any difference that it was the chieftain's chariot? That it was a fine chariot, pulled by the strongest ponies? When that bladed wheel cut into your thigh, when it lamed you and disgraced you, when it took away your honour, when it eviscerated your flesh, unmanned you, entered you, did you think: I am glad it wasn't a shabby chariot, driven by an old man, past his prime? Did you take comfort from the grandness of the blade that sliced you, did it bring you _pleasure_?" Esca's voice is tight with rage.

Marcus swallows heavily, trying not to let Esca's words anger him. "I understand," he says quietly. "But the difference is - you are talking about something that brought only pain, physically speaking. I could... I can bring you some pleasure." He thinks of Esca's soft cock, the time he saw him and his Uncle together, then he thinks of how it is in his imaginings, hard and pulsing with need.

"And what makes you think _you_ could bring me pleasure?" Esca asks. He says 'you' like it is a dirty word.

"I've been told... Lovers have said I'm good at it," Marcus mumbles, hoping Esca can't see the flush he can feel rising along his throat.

"Which lovers would these be? Slaves? Camp followers? Whores? You think they are free to truly tell you what they think of your love-making abilities?"

Marcus can feel the flush turn even hotter, spread up to his cheeks. "No! There were men, in the army, my brothers in arms. Men who I loved as an equal."

At that word Esca snorts. "Ah, but you wouldn't love me as an equal, would you Centurion? What is it you want? What is it you dream of getting from me, your _brother-in-arms_? My lips on you, my tongue against you, sucking you off? Bent over, stretched around your cock? _Equal_." Esca almost spits the word back at him.

"There are... other things... We wouldn't have to do anything you did not like," Marcus replies softly, desperately.

"Anything I did not like, hmm?" Esca's voice has become suddenly silky, low and seductive, dangerous. "What of the things I _do_ like? Would you do them for me?" He steps closer and Marcus can smell the clean, lemony scent of him, rising hotly from that impossibly cool creamy looking skin.

He licks his lips. His mouth has gone dry. "Yes, of course. Anything... you want."

Esca smiles again, lupine, eyes bright and sharp. "And what if I want you to suck _my_ cock, hm? What if I want the great centurion to get on his knees before me, and open his pretty little mouth, and lick at me? What if I want to fuck into his mouth over and over until he gags on me? What if I want to spunk down his throat, have him swallow it? What would you say then, _brother_?"

"I would say... I would say....," Marcus mumbles. He feels like he did the night he saw Esca and his Uncle; paralysed, slow, as if halfway in a dream. His heart is thundering in his ears, making his head feel thick with blood. Esca raises his hand to Marcus' face and rubs his thumb over the succulent pout of Marcus' bottom lip. He pushes in, hard against Marcus' teeth

"Will you open for me? Will you yield?"

Marcus parts his jaw, the tiniest amount, barely breathing, feels Esca's thumb slide against the ridges of his incisors, press down against his tongue.

"What if I said I wanted you now, against the wall of the outhouse there? Would you turn, brace yourself against it, wait for me? Would you unlace your braccae, push them down your thighs? Would you spread your legs for me? Would you hold yourself open? Would you let me put my fingers there? My prick?"

Esca presses against him then, and Marcus can feel his hardness through the rough cloth of his braccae, even as he feels his own erection jut against Esca's hip. Marcus feels like he cannot breathe, his throat tightening with all the feelings that are swimming in his guts: want, shame, anger. He bites down hard on the digit invading his mouth, but Esca doesn't even wince, just pulls it free with a short, sharp laugh.

"Thought so," he says softly, shaking his head. "Thought so."

Then he turns and walks away through the orchard, leaving Marcus alone with the basket of spoiled fruit.

 

That night Marcus hears his Uncle and Esca through the stone of the wall that divides them. He lays in the dark and listens, and by the time the sounds have muted into the still of the night he finds to his surprise that his cheeks are wet with tears.


End file.
